Stolen Daughters by Carolyn Arnold (top novels TXT) 📗

fresh start of a new day. Nothing yet had hit the news about Fox’s murder. Probably all because Detective Steele had shut them down. He’d seen her turn that reporter away. How could she be so obtuse? His message needed to get out, and she had stopped that from happening. She had made herself his enemy, and he felt betrayed. Just like all those years ago when he’d been stung by the same emotions—the rejection, the abandonment, the utter helplessness. The invisibility. The detective would pay for what she’d done. He just had to figure out the best way to hit her. Because when he did, he wanted it to be such a blindside, she’d be spinning. That thought brought a smile to his face.

He looked down at his arm where Fox had clawed him. The skin had welted from her attack. He just hoped she hadn’t infected him with something.

He grabbed a bottle of hydrogen peroxide from the medicine cabinet over the sink. It was probably expired, but it would have to do. He grabbed a tissue from his pocket and dabbed at the wound. No sting. He swiped the area, cleaning it yet again. Still feeling nothing but emotional angst. Rage, heartbreak, and confusion whirled like a tornado within him.

How could the detective turn on him like she had? Had she not received his message at the grave? Did she not appreciate how important his work was? No one ever seemed to understand him.

He caught his eyes in the mirror. They were dark and clouded, unlike his mind and soul, which were, in a lot of ways, clearer than ever.

He returned to the sitting area in his loft and logged into his laptop. He checked online again to see if anything had hit the news about Fox, and there was nothing. He balled his hands into fists. Detective Steele would pay for this. The public had a right to know about his work, and couldn’t the detective see how meaningless Fox’s death was without the message getting out?

He brought up an article on the fire, from two days before, and settled on the reporter’s name. Fraser Reyes. He should just call this Fraser guy and get him to tell the story. He could keep his anonymity, block his number, and say he was a neighbor—or even a friend of Fox’s friend. He’d seen the woman hugging the yoga mat and sobbing. She was the one who had found Fox, and she must have been close to her.

But he had to think this through. Did he want to make the call? Was there any way it could be traced back to him? But from what he understood, reporters protected their sources. It could work out blessedly.

The contact page on the newspaper’s website took him to an online form.

He’d pass. That wasn’t what he wanted.

He dug around the internet and found Fraser Reyes’s LinkedIn page. There was a phone number listed on his profile—out in the open for anyone to see.

He went into his phone’s settings and chose to hide his number. Then he entered Fraser’s digits into his phone and stared at it, his finger poised over the call button.

It was time the public knew what was going on in Prince William County and also what Fox’s so-called heroic act had brought her.

He placed the call, and it rang to voicemail. He hung up immediately. He’d try again in a few minutes. What kind of journalist wasn’t sitting by their phone, regardless of the hour?

More anger whirled through him, his leg bouncing wildly.

Now what?

He’d consider how to get even with the detective, while staying focused on his mission. Should he kill her or toy with her?

He took his laptop and went into the farmhouse. There was no sign of his mother. She must have been puttering around the place somewhere, but he was happy for the solitude right now. Though that wasn’t always the case. He used to be a people person. He preferred team sports to solitary ones. The deer hunts his father took him on were some of the most horrible days of his childhood. There was no bonding, just his father’s desire to groom his son into a skilled archer, which had failed—though he was good at the gutting and skinning of the animal.

But when it came to baseball, he was part of a team. He became so good at the sport that he’d received a college baseball scholarship. Not that the gift had led anywhere. He was still invisible to the people who should have loved him the most. His grades suffered, and so did his game. No baseball scout wanted him.

Even if he’d taken up bronc riding like his mother had wanted, that probably wouldn’t have been enough for her to really notice him. He was invisible because of her.

He sniffled and clenched his jaw. She could do nothing wrong—even when she did. But enough of that! He was finally taking hold of the reins of his life and seizing control. No wonder his mother was proud of him now and finally paying attention.

He made himself a coffee and set his laptop on the kitchen table as he waited for it to brew. He also took out his phone and tried that journalist again.

“Hello. Reyes here.”

Fraser had answered, and the shock of it rendered him momentarily mute.

“Hello?” Fraser repeated.

“Hi.” The one word scraped from his throat.

“Who is this?”

He felt on the spot and panicked. “I know something you need to know.”

“Let’s start with names. Yours would be?”

“No names, but I think there might be a serial killer in Prince William County.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line, then, “What makes you say that?” There was hesitation and trepidation in Fraser’s voice.

He tried to suppress his amusement. He didn’t want his smile to travel the line. “My friend’s friend was murdered.”

“Keep talking.”

And that’s what he did. He told the journalist probably more than he should have. He mentioned the severed